My mouth formed a large, round “O” as I realized what he had in mind. The thought of laying that rubber-coated paddle against his firm ass, seeing it glow red, hearing him whimper, sent an electrical charge sizzling through me. My lower stomach tightened, my cock twitching.
I glanced toward the nightstand. A few coins lay there, and I snatched up a quarter. “Call it."
Adam grinned. “Heads."
I flipped the coin high in the air, but when I slapped my right palm down on the back of my left hand, there was nothing trapped beneath it. The quarter had bounced off, flying across the room. It took the two of us a couple of minutes to find it, wedged between the baseboard and the dresser. “It's tails!” I yelled jubilantly. “I go first!” Adam roughly nudged me out of the way, groaning loudly when he realized I was right.
"Damn it! Two out of three?"
"Not a chance. I go first this time,” I replied happily, shaking my head. Using the edge of the dresser, I hauled myself to my feet, and plucked the paddle from Adam's hand. “Assume the position,” I said, trying to keep a stern face and not laugh. I pressed my lips tightly together, but the laughter snorted out through my nose.
Adam huffed, crawling up onto the bed on his hands and knees. Lordy, that ass is just perfect! I thought, unable to resist running a hand over his firm rump, and admiring the heavy sac that hung between his thighs.
He practically purred, wiggling his butt for a moment under my caress, but then cleared his throat. “No fair. That's cheating."
"Just admiring the target, Adam,” I said amicably. “Okay, five to start, right?” I wasn't going to hold back at all—with a little luck, five good ones would be all I'd need to get him to cry uncle, and my butt wouldn't need to taste the sting of the paddle. “Here we go!"
One. I swung hard, and Adam yelped as the paddle connected with the flesh of his ass with a good, solid, thwap. A glowing red splotch bloomed on the tanned skin of his right cheek.
I didn't give the sting I knew he must have been feeling time to fade before I delivered another good, hard swat to the opposite cheek. Now his ass sported two matching blotches, although the best I could draw from him was another yelp.
Three times more the paddle scored on his flesh, the textured rubber pads on the paddles raising tiny indents on the red marks on his skin. Another sharp cry accompanied each strike, but he didn't concede.
Shit, I thought. The rich, pampered playboy is tougher than he looks.
"Your turn,” he reminded me. I noticed he was rubbing his sore bum, but oddly, it brought me little satisfaction since I knew I was about to feel his pain—literally.
The first two strikes weren't bad. They stung, but I managed not to make a sound. Somehow, silence made me feel a little superior to Adam, who'd yelped from the first whack to the last.
That ended when the third time the paddle connected with my tender butt. The sting was sharper this time. I cried out, and by the fifth blow, my body was trying to move away of its own accord, instinct trying to put distance between my sore ass and the punishing paddle.
On my next turn, the number of whacks doubled, and I poured even more force into them. By the time I was done, his ass cheeks glowed cherry red, but he still hadn't given in.
I assumed the position. Every thwack of the paddle seared my butt, each more painful than the last, bringing tears to my eyes. My ass was on fire; the pain was incredible. It throbbed hideously, incessantly. I made it through the round, but knew I couldn't take any more punishment.
I ducked my head so Adam wouldn't see the tears that wet my face, silently cursing myself for being a wuss. I wasn't going to win—I knew it already. Maybe he was stronger than I was, or my threshold for pain was lower, but either way, I was going to lose. The thought of the paddle torturing my skin again was almost too much to bear.
His ass looked like mine felt. Bright red, the pattern of the rubber was scored into his hide. I must have caught him with the edge a couple of times, because there were welts raised here and there on his skin. He had to be hurting as much as me, maybe more. I didn't want to paddle him anymore. I wanted to kiss the soreness away, lick him until we both forgot the pain, the contest, everything.
I raised the paddle, lowered it, raised it again. I just couldn't bring myself to score another hit on that beautiful ass. Finally, I let the paddle touch his butt lightly, almost in a caress. I was done. I gave up. “Uncle,” I whispered, tossing the paddle to the floor.
Adam rolled to his side with his arm tucked under his head, and looked at me curiously. “You're giving up?"
"Yup. It's over. You win.” It was an odd sensation for me, purposely losing, and it shocked me that I didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse over my decision. Maybe the alcohol I'd drunk was at fault, but somehow, I doubted it. “My ass stings like a sumbitch, and if I'd swatted you again, you'd be bleeding."
"I don't want to win like this.” There was a stubborn, endearing tilt to his chin.
"Too bad. You win, game, set, match.” I sat back on my haunches and winced, immediately regretting it. I stretched out next to him instead, lying on my side, keeping my sore butt from touching anything.
He stared at me for a few minutes before a slow grin creased his cheek. “What game?"
I blinked, unsure of what he was talking about—surely, he wasn't that drunk! “What do you mean, ‘what game'? The one we just played."
"I don't remember playing any game. There was no game, no bet, no winner, no loser,” he said softly, still smiling. His finger traced the shape of my jaw; his thumb gently touched my lips. “There's only me and you in our beautiful suite, in the middle of the Caribbean Sea."
"Our suite?"
"Well, sure. We paid for it, didn't we?"
"Have you missed a dose of medication or something? Last I heard you and I were fighting tooth and nail over bragging rights to this suite."
"No. You must be thinking of two other guys. We get along just fine,” he whispered.
I realized in the heartbeat before he leaned in and touched his lips to mine, that he was conceding, too. Then I forgot all about winning and losing as I opened my mouth for him and tasted whiskey and sunshine on his tongue.
Hunger suddenly flared in my lower belly, although food was the last thing on my mind. I was starving to touch him, and my hands tried to be everywhere at once. It had been too long since I last felt hard muscles moving smoothly under taut skin, or felt the hard heat of a cock pressing against my thigh. I no longer cared that he was rich, or famous, or had won our stupid bet. I wanted him, all of him, all at once.
Adam moaned softly as he turned fully into my arms, and I preferred to believe it was because of my hands stroking his heated flesh rather than the fiery kiss of the paddle on his rear end. My own ass burned and ached, but it only served to heighten my awareness of every other inch of me. My skin felt ultra-sensitive; I could feel the hair on Adam's legs, the ridges of his fingerprints, his eyelashes fluttering against my cheek.
"God, you taste good,” he murmured, his breath warm against my throat as his licked the tender flesh under my jaw. I gasped when he nipped me there.
"Good. Taste more. Consider me your personal onboard buffet,” I whispered, and he chuckled against my throat. I could feel the reverberations of his laugh rumbling in his chest; my fingers followed, slipping across his pectorals, finding his nipples.
His hands weren't idle. They smoothed over my shoulders, my arms, found my hip, teased lightly over my sore buttocks. “We did a number on each other,” he whispered, as one finger traced the crack of my ass.
I didn't answer. Instead, I tilted my hips, pushing my erection into his belly. “Hands front, soldier. That stings."
"My pleasure.” His hand slid back over my hip, fingers curling around the heated flesh of my cock. My breath caught as I felt a slight squeeze, a long, slow stroke, a thumb teasing the head of my prick. “More. Faster,” I groaned, as my hand brushed along his flat stomach, seeking the length of white-h
ot iron pressing against my groin. I found it, stroking him the way I most wanted to be touched.
He increased the pace; so did I. We matched each other stroke for stroke as if we were still in competition with each other, but this contest was one I knew we'd both win.
Adam's breathing grew erratic; I held my breath, both of us trying to stave off coming, still competing. “Morgan, I'm going to come!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
"Me, too. You first!"
"No, you!"
His hand squeezed, and my breath exploded from my lungs as I came, my hips frantically pushing, fucking his fist. I looked down between us, watching my come paint his hand white, and realized he'd climaxed at nearly the same time.
"Too close to call,” Adam said with a smile when we finally collapsed against one another, breathing hard. “It's a draw."
I nodded my head, and rested it on his shoulder, tired, happy and sated. “A tie. That'll work."
"Gonna have to have a rematch."
"You're on. Later, though. Sleep now, then maybe food,” I said, rolling over, wincing as my ass reminded me of our ping-pong game. I felt him settle next to me, one arm draped over my hip.
We're a lot alike, I realized, just before sleep claimed me. Both of us drive ourselves to our limits; both go the extra mile, do whatever's necessary to succeed.
We were a perfect pair of determined, if sore, winners.
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Rough Edges
By Jane Davitt
Against the deep blue of the bedroom wall, the dark wood of the paddle was like a patch of shadow. A few months earlier, Michael had hung the paddle on a nail hammered in with three sharp taps, after threading a loop of leather through a hole bored in the handle. The paddle swung gently back and forth and then settled into place.
Waiting.
Steve was waiting, too. He'd been told to kneel, facing the paddle, and that was what he was doing, perfectly still, the bed behind him, his naked body warm and relaxed now that he'd stopped fighting the emotions that had brought him to this place.
It had been one hell of a day. One petty annoyance after another and the speeding ticket on the way home had been the point at which he'd broken. The cop had let him rant and swear, argue and defend himself, and then written the ticket, handed it over, and murmured, “Go home, Steve. My shift ends in an hour. Get naked, kneel down. You know where. And one more word from you now and you'll spend the night gagged."
Steve closed his eyes for a moment, remembering what Michael's words had done to him. He hadn't said anything after that, his anger diverted into an arousal that each passing moment had honed to a sharp edge it would take Michael hours to blunt and smooth down.
He could feel his cock throb with each breath he took, feel his skin tingle in the breeze coming through the open window. Michael would close it when he came in, and draw the heavy curtains, so that the rush of traffic outside faded to a hum and Steve could make all the noise he needed to. If he got too loud, Michael would know—Steve would be past caring—and the gag would take care of that.
Freedom to scream was a gift Steve hadn't known he wanted. Michael was the only person to ever give it to him, wrapped up in an awareness of Steve's needs that left him wondering how he'd gotten so lucky. Michael didn't just love him, Michael knew him, saw him clearly, always had from that first meeting in a bar when Steve had gotten in over his head with a blind date who gave him the creeps and decided to leave. He'd walked away and caught Michael staring at him, the interest behind the speculative gaze enough to turn his steps away from the door and over to Michael's table.
Steve had come a long way since that first, cautiously hopeful conversation. Six months ago, he wouldn't have obeyed Michael to the letter; he'd have come in, grabbed a beer, taken a shower, maybe jerked off, still moody, still tense. He might have gone naked to his knees a few minutes before Michael was due home, but that was about it. Good enough.
Except Michael always knew when he'd been less than perfect in his obedience, and no, it wasn't good enough, not for Michael and not for Steve.
Tonight, he'd walked through the door, paused only long enough to check for phone messages in case Michael had any further instructions for him, and stripped down as he hurried to the bedroom. The sweat had cooled and dried on his body as he knelt, and he could smell it, each breath bringing him the reek of a day filled with frustration.
His legs were numb now, but he wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about anything but the paddle hanging on the wall.
"I'll use it when you need it.” Michael stroked the flat surface with his fingertip. “I'll know when the time's right and so will you. Until then, you'll have to make do with my hand. Is that a problem?"
"You know it isn't.” Steve grinned and brought Michael's hand back until it lay on his ass, fingers spread, flexing slightly. “Now? Please?"
"Later, babe.” Michael smiled at him. “When you've come so hard your brain's offline."
"Love it when you talk geek to me, Mr. Policeman."
"And I thought it was the cop-issue handcuffs."
Three times, the paddle had been unhooked from the wall. Once when one of Steve's friends had been killed in a fire and his dreams had been filled with the crackle of flames and hoarse screams until the harsh, flat slap of the paddle had drowned them out. Once, Michael's mouth twitching with amusement, on Michael's own birthday, after Steve had spent too long insisting that on this one day, Michael should be the one bent over Steve's knee.
And once, like tonight, when Steve had been about to fly apart and Michael had given him an appraising, thoughtful look, and then walloped his ass until the sting and throb of punished skin had been all that he could think about.
"I should kick your ass, not paddle it.” Steve blinked and took his gaze away from the paddle to meet Michael's frown.
He swallowed and tried not to make it a gulp. He hadn't heard Michael come in; how weird was that? Normally, he'd have to be hip-deep in programming to be that oblivious to his surroundings. “About that..."
"Tell me, tell me, you wouldn't have mouthed off like that to just any uniform who'd pulled you over."
"I wouldn't!” Steve protested and then paused. “Well ... I wouldn't have gotten so personal."
Michael sighed and scrubbed his mouth with his hand, gray eyes weary, his dark hair cropped too short to be rumpled, but a long way from perfectly smooth. “You'd have gotten more than a ticket if you'd done that. So where was the fire? You were doing twenty over the limit in a built-up area, you know."
Guilt seeped past the pleasure of having Michael home and safe. He hadn't really taken in what Michael had recited in a monotone, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I was distracted. See, at work, well, it began before that, when I slept through the alarm after you'd left—"
"I don't care,” Michael interrupted. “You had a bad day. It happens. You don't get to drive as out of control as you would've been if you'd been drinking."
"I'd never do that,” Steve said and meant it. He shifted position, aware of his protesting muscles now that he'd been unceremoniously jerked out of his meditative haze.
"Stay where you are,” Michael told him. “I'm not ready to deal with you yet. Too fucking pissed."
"My legs have gone to sleep."
That got him an eye-roll. “You know better than to let them get that way. They start to, then you get up, walk around, get back into position. You know that."
"Yes, but—"
"Do it now."
Standing up hurt. Walking—stumbling—around the room, with the blood flowing back into his legs, pins and needles sharply agonizing, hurt, too. Michael closed the window and drew the curtains, just as Steve had known he would, and then watched him walk, arms crossed over his chest, his face expressionless.
Kneeling down again made Steve wince, but Michael just nodded. “Better. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. You were out of control. You go off into your own world and you're bli
nd and deaf, you know that. You're not fit to drive like that. Next time, you stay where you are and I'll come and get you when my shift ends. Or you take a cab home; sure, it's expensive, but it's cheaper than a fine."
"You're not going to lose the ticket, are you?” Steve said, resigned to that inevitable consequence. Michael wasn't a saint, but he drew his lines carefully when it came to his job. Fixing tickets fell outside the favors he'd do for a friend.
"It's been taken care of."
Steve turned his head to stare at Michael. “What? But you never do that.” Understanding dawned. “You paid it?” The ticket had been a couple hundred dollars. It would have been an exaggeration to say that Steve earned twice what Michael made, but not by much. Paying the fine wouldn't leave Michael penniless, sure, but still...
"Looked at one way, I'm the one who deserved the ticket. I'm supposed to see when you're getting worked up and stop it happening.” Michael's voice was flat. “Looks like I screwed up because it sure as hell took more than one day to get you like this. So, yeah, I'm annoyed with you, but I'm really fucking furious with myself.” His gaze went to the paddle on the wall. “And that's staying there until I get over it, because paddling your ass isn't supposed to be a punishment.” A faint smile warmed his face. “It's supposed to make us both feel good, right?"
"Right,” Steve agreed in a whisper. “God, I—I need it, Michael. Really fucking need it."
"So do I,” Michael said and sounded as if he meant it. “You have no idea how much. You're not the only one having trouble at work. There's this new captain in Vice and he's asked for half of my department—” He broke off. “You know what? I'm going to take a shower, have a beer, and cook us supper. Forget about it all."
"Sounds good,” Steve agreed cautiously. “What about me?"
Michael glared at him. “You can stay there while I shower and then take one yourself. You look like you need one. Smell like it, too."
"Waste of water."
"Maybe. But you don't get to shower with me."
Toy Box: Paddles Page 3